H: for How Long Will I Spend on This (or Honestly It's Felt Like Decades)

It's been a while.  I have nearly started this so many times over the last 2 1/2 years, but then I didn't know how or I got busier or I forgot or I was scared. 

But writing is in my heart.  It's how I process.  So here I am.

This was meant to be "Month 4: My Peeps" in my journey through Loving My Actual Life.  It started that way back in October 2016, and then I failed miserably.  So I gave myself another month.  And I really did try.

Month 4:
Boy oh boy, do I need this.  Husband and I have both been stressed with work--that makes us both withdraw.  So I have barely spent time with him, Daughters and I are doing a great job arguing, I miss my friends, there is a sweet babe I know who was born sick . . . all I want to do is read, and all I feel obligated to do is work.

So.  People.  The ones I love.  The ones God gave me to do life beside--to love my life with.

Quantity time.

Quality time.

I planned to schedule time in my calendar to be with specific people, send handwritten notes to people, be present with eye contact and no phone, and watch for moments when God put someone in front of me who needed me in that moment.

Y'all, that's where I got stuck.  Once I started looking for them, they were everywhere.

That month started with a phone call from a dear, dear friend I love with a mix of younger sister and niece and daughter telling me her baby boy had been born . . . and hours later had slipped into respiratory distress as a result of a brain bleed.  They were states away, and I fell to my knees.  I spent days staring at my computer monitor watching him in the hospital and praying, pleading, willing him to take one more breath.  Wondering if I should get in my car and drive to them.  Wondering if I'd ever get to meet him. 

That month was November 2016.

Day Nine: Today we sat the girls down to tell them about the election.  We also discussed our family rules and how that means we connect with people.  We look for people on the buddy bench, and we engage with them.  Because we're human.  Because love trumps hate.  I've always known that, but in the faces of my girls I see it.

Day Eleven: I am grieving.  This connecting means actually seeing where people are--actually seeing them.  And sometimes it means grieving.  So I am.

Day Sixteen: It's never-ending, the talking and the thinking.  And apparently the crying.  It's not lost on me that in this month of connecting I am finding myself withdrawing.  This election has truly built a wall . . . It's not lost on me how I am connecting with humanity as a larger part, even while pulling away from people around me.  It's a pity it takes this for us to see how much we need each other and be grateful we have each other.  I am praying that as this month progresses I continue to see and pursue those connections.  Also that I remember the hope and connections President Obama encouraged in his State of the Union: "I believe in change, because I believe in you."
May that be true today.  May I believe in change and in goodness and in love because I believe in myself and my sisters and my kids and my husband and strangers on the train.

Day (thirty)One: I think I need a redo.  None of my intentionality happened this month.  So December will be my peeps...again.  Today I spent largely by myself, with one major exception.  I drove to Kalamazoo in the sleet to place a Cubs pennant by Uncle Johnny's grave.  He would have been so happy they won.  And that made me think.  Part of being present--and loving my actual life--means truly knowing the people around me.  What is their thing?  What is the part of them that will seem important enough to their being that would make it worth standing in a cemetery an hour away from home forcing a baseball pennant into the semi-frozen ground at the base of a 30-year-old headstone in 30-degree sleet?  I want to know that about my people.

And so.  For the past 29 months I have been living a redo.  I've been failing and succeeding and then failing again at putting my phone down and being fully present.  I've written exactly one handwritten note and approximately one zillion text messages.  I've created hashtags and adopted colored hearts and started watching the Bachelor and eaten way too much ice cream and shared too many bottles of wine. 

Along the way a college friend's mom was diagnosed with a malignant brain tumor, and she died.  Another friend-like-a-father has seen the levels of cancer in his body dwindle and come back with a vengeance, even while his sister died from a years-long battle with cancer and his wife was diagnosed.  A friend from elementary school has courageously fought breast cancer--finally getting to ring the bell at the end of treatments and in remission--while also going through a divorce.  That baby boy nephew/grandson/friend turned two and is running and playing golf and hockey and making us all laugh with his sweetness, perfectly and miraculously healthy. 

I've walked part of these last 29 months with a friend through an eating disorder that left her in residential treatment and continues to call her name, another friend through realized childhood trauma that has eaten away too much of her adult life and threatened to steal her spirit, and the coming out and settling in to who God made them to be of friends and family.  I have been a confidant and a cheerleader and a late-night text and a hug.  I have grieved.  Oh, have I grieved.

I have watched my daughters navigate the end of elementary school and the beginning of middle school.  They have said goodbye to friends and welcomed new ones.  As a country we have endured too many school shootings to remember all their names, and as a mother I have sent my daughter to school because school officials and the school police officer insisted our kids were safe despite a threat of violence. And then I did it again.  And I stood on the sidewalk surrounded by middle schoolers at a March for Their Lives rally my 7th grader helped organize. 

My heart has wandered away from church as I've watched and listened to too much hate spewed in the name of a God who commanded us to love.  And then, in the end, I've wandered back in . . . because people.

I stood on a corner in beautiful Charleston, SC, in disbelief as my husband told me--through the phone and my protestations that I had just sung a song with him the day before--that a vibrant man, the backbone of hospitality in our church, had died that day at work.  I have been to funerals, I have been to support groups, I have intervened in harassment of a sleeping homeless man on a train, I have mothered a drunken college student on a train platform, I have stopped a drunken hair-pulling fight between strangers at a concert, I have born witness to countless stories of trauma and mental illness, I have fought with words and actions for marginalized people, I have marched...and I have loved.  I have loved.

And I have failed miserably at loving. 

I have allowed myself to love those I deemed worthy of my love.

And the others I have judged with a harshness and a disdain and even a disgust.

And, oh, God, I have so much to learn. 

So how long will I spend on month four?  It's become Groundhog Day or Before I Fall for me, a month I'm destined to repeat until I figure out how to get it right.  In truth, these 29 months have been the longest decades of my life.  They have been heartbreaking and challenging and beautiful and life changing.

These 29 months I've spent weaving in and out of intentionality around loving the people in my actual life--in person, via text, over social media--ended in two remarkable and contrasting ways.  Both with death, and, in a way, both with life.

Easter.  It's the dawn after the darkness.  It's the promise that the grave doesn't win and that sin doesn't win and that somehow, some way, what has been turned upside down will be made right again.

And then, days later, Rachel Held Evans died.  How many lives have I pleaded for in these 29 months?  How much healing have I banged on the Throne of Grace for in these 29 months?  Rachel's is included.  My wandering back into church--and the staying power, if I'm honest--began with the words of Rachel.  Like so many others, I am in church #becauseofRHE.  In the hours and days after Rachel's death, I came across this Tweet from @jamieleefinch:

"#BecauseofRHE tweets today I'm struck with the awareness that the greatest thing Rachel may have given all of us was each other."

I replied with this: "#BecauseofRHE I know I am not alone...in my doubts, in my convictions, in my hopes, in my longings.  She gave me Church."

But she gave me more than that.  As I've read so much of what's been written about her, now that we won't get anything more written by her, I have been struck by the grace with which she treated those who belittled and attacked and hated her.  She saw in everyone one truth: the image of God. 

I haven't seen that.

I've allowed myself to decide that certain people have decided to ignore the image of God in themselves and in others they don't like or are afraid of and have therefore made themselves unworthy of love and grace from me.  As if I'm the one who gets to decide any of that.  I have done the very thing I have accused them of doing.  I may choose to let in those traditionally locked out, but I'm no different if I'm pushing others out the door in order to do it. 

Y'all, I want to be loving.  I want to be safe.  I want to figure out how to embrace even those with whom I disagree.  God, let me see You in them.  All of them.  I want to figure out what is important enough to their being that I would stand in the sleet or stay up half the night or storm the Throne of Grace on their behalf. 

"But the gospel doesn't need a coalition devoted to keeping the wrong people out.  It needs a family of sinners, saved by grace, committed to tearing down the walls, throwing open the doors, and shouting, 'Welcome! There's bread and wine.  Come eat with us and talk.' This isn't a kingdom for the worthy; it's a kingdom for the hungry."    - Rachel Held Evans

At the end of the day, we're all the wrong people.  And we're all the sinners saved by grace.  And we're all welcome, because we're all so, so hungry.

 

 

 

E: for Entering In (also, for Enough)

I work in a trauma-rich environment.  That's the actual phrase they use to describe my workplace.  My work is not specifically "trauma-rich"--I'm the Business Manager.  I handle Human Resources and budgeting and accounts payable and such.  So it's not my job per se that is trauma-rich.  It's the place where I work.

We provide services for children who have been sexually abused.

And here's the thing.  Nationally, over 90% of children are sexually abused by someone they know, love, or trust.  In my county, in the nearly 10 years I've tracked these stats, it's closer to 99%.  Think on that for a minute.  Ninety-nine percent of children are sexually abused by someone they know.  Someone they trust.  Someone they love.  It might be a family member or a family friend, but it isn't a stranger hiding behind a bush to nab them.  It's someone their parents have let into their lives.  Or it's the parent him or herself.

That's trauma-rich for you.

Because of the nature of our workplace, and the space our therapists and interviewers and family advocate and intake coordinator hold for our children to tell their stories, we've been talking about self care.  Self care really looks different for everyone . . . and most of us are better at declaring what it's not.  At a recent staff meeting, we talked about how proper self care is built on a foundation of entering in.  It's a foundation of feeling what there is to feel and then handling it appropriately (i.e. not drinking too much, swearing, yelling at everyone around you, or eating.  I know, right?).

Entering in.

Experiencing the feelings.

Not numbing them.

Because numbing them means you aren't feeling them. And the drinking, swearing, yelling, eating, and escaping is all about numbing.

Well, great. Now what? Entering in feels very, very scary. And very painful. And the opposite of what I really want to do.

So I eat too much, or I yell, or I swear. And then I feel a bit better for a while. And then I go back to work or I have to "Mom" again or I somehow start to feel . . . and then I eat too much, or I yell, or I swear.  And then the whole cycle starts over again.

And none of that is real or right or healthy or even all that helpful.

But there's a bigger problem.  And the bigger problem is that when you numb what hurts you also numb what heals.  Because numbing isn't self selective. You can't numb the bad without numbing the good.  You can't escape the pain without also escaping the pleasure.  At least that's what this TEDTalk lady said.  She says humanity is about allowing yourself to be vulnerable.  It's about entering in and sitting in the hurt and being honest about it.  And she says it's impossible to connect without that.

As I sat there in our staff meeting and thinking about what she said (and how much I really wished someone had brought doughnuts to that staff meeting), I realized something.  In the past I've written about my sensory processing disorder, and I've talked often about my own journey through postpartum depression and the meds and therapy that got me through that.  What I maybe haven't mentioned is that for over a year I also took an antidepressant prescribed by my doctor simply because my sensory issues don't really lend themselves to having children and momming. Nice, right?  So I dutifully took those pills, and I could make it through my days with work and kids and school and schedules.

And I made it through.  And I didn't cry so much.  And then I realized I didn't cry at all.  And I didn't really laugh that much either. And I didn't really have a desire to write anymore or even the words to write.  And I panicked when I realized I couldn't even really daydream.  So I quit taking them.  In my head I said, "Well, most writers are crazy. I'd rather have that crazy if it means I can create."  But the truth was that I just wanted to cry again.  I wanted to feel.

{Now I'm in no way advocating that everyone should get off their medication for depression or anxiety. I'm not even positive it was the right decision for me--and I definitely gained about 20 pounds, so one could argue I'm just doing a different kind of medicating--but it is something I needed to do.  I needed to feel.  BUT if you can't make it through your day and you can't enter in because you can't get out of bed, then you need to take something.  If you can't enter in because all you can think about is hurting yourself or total escape, then you need to take something.  If you can't enter in because you can't quiet your mind down enough to focus and breathe, then you need to take something.  Please keep taking your something, but do it under a doctor's care and with a therapist who can help you safely enter in.  And don't take yourself off your something without your doctor and your partner or close friends.  Please.}


Our pastor is currently preaching through a series on The Lord's Prayer.  A couple of weeks ago his message was on "Give us this day our daily bread."  Our daily bread.  What we need for today.  He read Exodus 16 to us and preached about that manna.  That "what is it?"  That literal daily bread.  Just enough for the one day.

I have so, so much.  And I still want more.  But He gave me Enough.  Because that's who He is.

Enough.

Not more than I need.  Not less than I need.  Enough.

During the message, our pastor asked, "What do you complain about the most?  What do you ask God for?  A life of ease?  A life of plenty?  Or for your daily needs to be met?"

That really hit me.

Do I complain about not having enough?  Do I complain about disappointment?  Do I complain about discomfort?  Or do I ask for my daily bread?  Do I ask for justice?  Do I ask for God's will?  Do I simply ask for more God?

Do I ask for Ease?

Or do I ask for Enough?

When I ask for enough rather than ease or escape then I find that I had enough to begin with.  That God, in His wisdom and knowing-all about my life, has already given me everything I need to enter in and rest in His enough.

Oh, it won't be easy.  And I'll have to stop overeating or self medicating in whatever way is right in front of me.  There will be pain, because that's what it means to be human.  There will be vulnerability, and there will be times when it is so awful I want to stop.  But when I enter in I will find that I have everything I need to make it through that day.

And I will laugh.

And I will cry.

And I will write.

And I will live.

(And hopefully I'll lose those 20 pounds.)

The Ultimate Cheat

We've been on sort of a hardcore diet for the past week.  I don't actually prescribe to dieting per se.  I believe that for weight loss to be sustainable it needs to be a lifestyle change.  I also don't believe losing weight should be the end goal.  That needs to be "healthy," and healthy comes in all shapes and sizes.

At the same time, healthy for me will mean, in part, losing weight.  Now, I know the theory behind losing weight and getting healthy: eat less (of the crappy food and oversized portions), eat more (of the right things), and move more (whether it's walking or running).

I get all that.

But, like many things (and many people), I struggle to put that theory in action.  So we came across The Doctor's Diet.  Dr. Travis Stork (yes, from The Doctors on TV, but also an ER doc at VanderBilt) put his own eating plan down on paper--it's high in veggies and healthy proteins and healthy carbs, and low in all those other things that taste great but make us gain weight, have low energy, and generally feel like junk.  Since I am the picky eater in the house, I looked through the menus he suggests for his two-week STAT plan and for his two-week RESTORE plan.  And then I looked at what I got to eat when I was done with that four-week cycle and had finally reached the holy pinnacle of My Goal Weight.  That's the MAINTAIN plan.  And it all looked doable.  And sensible.  And healthy.

So we kicked it off.

We've each had a cheat day (Thursday for both of us) where I did have ice cream.  And it was too big, and I felt like garbage after.  And not from guilt either.  I don't prescribe to guilt.  I'm a Romans 8:1 girl.  Beau noticed on his cheat day that he felt run down by afternoon, something he didn't feel the rest of the week while he was eating on the plan.  Imagine that.  The veggies and healthful carbs and protein works!  (And, incidentally, they actually taste good.  Imagine my surprise in enjoying a variety of beans, an avocado, guacamole sans onions, AND grapefruit?!  Not all together, though.  That still sounds gross.)

We also woke up this morning 9 pounds down (for Beau) and 7 pounds down (for me).  Which is exciting and horrifying all at once.  Exciting: the plan is working.  Horrifying: we were really eating like garbage before.

Anyway, today is Sunday.  It's Super Bowl Sunday, so we carefully chose the cheats we wanted for the party we're attending tonight and are looking forward to enjoying fellowship and some (carefully excessive) eating.  But first, we went to church.

Not only is today Sunday, today is Communion Sunday at our church.  We sat through the bulk of the service--a baptism, crying kids, offering, snippets of the sermon caught through chatting and wiggly kids--and then it was time for communion.  I learned a cool way of thinking about communion recently, so I was definitely looking forward to it this morning.  That time of toasting Jesus' memory, thanking Him for His love and His sacrifice . . .

Still, I wasn't prepared for the actual act of putting that little piece of white bread in my mouth today.

You guys.  Aside from two whole grain English muffins, I have not had a piece of bread in over a week.  And I certainly haven't had a hunk of pure, refined carb, zero nutritional value, white bread.  That thing was good.  My teeth sank into it.  I crushed it between my tongue and the roof of my mouth.  And for a moment I was in heaven.

Then I chuckled.

And in my head I said, "God, that was a great cheat.  Thank you."

And then I thought about it for a moment while the elders gathered the trays of grape juice, and I sat in anticipation of the taste of that juice--the first time drinking something other than water or tea in a week--passing across my taste buds and trickling its happy, sweet goodness down my throat.

And I whispered, right out loud, "Let it always be like this, God.  Let it always feel like a refreshing, I have missed you for so long, thank you for this gift, cheat.  Because, in the end, that's what it represents."

Death should have been mine.  That's where I was headed.  But Jesus cheated that for me.

Praise be my Rock!

Empowered Through Pain

It's been an interesting 14 months for the Bierenga family.  I've alluded to some of our family's journey here and here and again here.  I have wrestled over the last year with how much to write, whether to write, and what to really say.  In the end, I still haven't written.  I know I will, because that's what I do.  But I still need a little more space to really climb into it.

At the same time, something settled in my brain on Monday that I have to share.  Then it will feel real, and public, and permanent (remember, that's true about the internet).

Monday dawned dark and early, and I was in a bed at my parents' house.  My parents were on their way out the door.  I needed to shower so my sister and I could join them in a curtained room in the surgical prep area of Hackley Hospital in Muskegon.  The morning was freezing cold, and we shivered our way to the hospital before the sun was even considering breaking the horizon.  We found my parents in the last "room" on our left.  Dad was lying in the bed, and Mom was sitting on a chair next to him.  We spent our time there together, just the four of us, for the first time in years really, now that Sara and I are married and have five kids between us.  We were together while the nurse prepped Dad, while the anesthesiologist talked with him, while Sara prayed for Dad and the surgeons and the cancer to go away, while the surgeon checked in with him, while the surgeon prayed for the surgery team, while I read a sad note from a friend whose battle with cancer is nearing its final days, while we laughed and took pictures and read comments from friends who are praying.

And then it was time for the team to walk him to the Operating Room.  Nearly eight years ago, my dad left for Iraq.  That goodbye was hard.  That goodbye was for 400 days and thousands of miles and time zones and bombs and war.  That was the hardest goodbye I've ever had with my dad.  This one nestled right up against it.  So much was riding on that bed.  My daddy was riding on that bed.  And how do you kiss him goodbye hoping and uncertain and wishing and dreaming and desperately loving?  We did it.

While we were waiting in the Family Waiting Area (while "The 700 Club" played on TV, so that wasn't super helpful), we all tried to occupy ourselves.  Sara worked on a training for work.  Mom read Facebook and played Candy Crush and Words with Friends.  I read a book for the Baker Bloggers Program.  And while I was reading, while the surgeons were collecting samples of my dad's insides for biopsy, while hundreds of people around the country were praying, while we were trying to distract ourselves, it hit me.

I was reading the section entitled "Experiencing God's Presence in Suffering, Loss, and Pain."  Kevin Harney wrote:

Suffering is suffering.  It is ours as we walk through it.  It invariably leads to tears, sorrow, heartache, and struggle.  It usually comes unannounced and we rarely know when it will leave.
Most of all, suffering can crush our faith or strengthen it.  The decision is ours.  Will I cling to Jesus through my pain and with tears streaming down my face?  Or will I turn my back and walk away from the only One who can carry me through?  Will I curse God or bless his name even if my teeth are clenched in agony as I worship?  Will I let the presence and power of God fill me to overflowing when I have nothing left to give, or will I seek to make it through in my own strength?
Powerful people seek to face suffering by relying on their own reserve of strength and tenacity.
The powerless throw in the towel as soon as the winds shift, long before the roof comes crashing down.
But the empowered hold the hand of Jesus and let his strength and presence carry them through the tempest of suffering, loss, and pain.  The empowered know that they can't weather the storms life will bring, but that the Maker of heaven and earth can place them under his wings and shelter them no matter what comes their way.

I read that, and then I looked up at my mom and my big sister, and I said, "I'm empowered.  And I'm empowered because we're empowered.  That's what you and Dad taught us."  And it's true.

Our faith isn't perfect.  My grandparents made their mistakes, but they instilled in my mom a faith that is her own.  And through their own struggles and journeys and heartaches my parents have given me a faith in the Maker of heaven and earth and His shelter and peace.

Just over 19 years ago, I left home.  I moved to a secular college because I wanted to forget my parents' faith and find my own.  During that time I made mistakes, and I said and did some hurtful things in my "enlightenment."  But I worked hard to build my faith.  And now there I was.  Sitting in a nondescript and uncomfortable waiting room while my dad underwent cancer surgery, and I realized that the faith I have is now my own, but it's also my parents'.   I'm empowered by the presence of God in the midst of my pain and suffering.  But every single day of the journey we have walked since November 2013 I have seen the same empowering written in my parents' words.  It's been in their strength, in their hope, in their peace, in their prayers.  That didn't change when Zack died.  It didn't change when my dad was pushed into retirement.  It didn't change when our house was broken into.  It didn't change when Dad was told he had cancer.  It didn't change while we waited in that room together.  It didn't change today when we were told that my dad's lymph nodes and all margins of his prostate are clear of cancer.  And I know without a doubt that it wouldn't have changed if we had been told his body was riddled with the disease.

Harney goes on to talk about being "propelled onward by the call and mission of God."  He says that our journey of faith is not really any different than Abraham's when he was still called Abram and he followed an unknown God from the land of his family into a new land where God would build His kingdom.  "Who follows God like this?" Harney writes.  "Abraham and Sarah.  Peter and Andrew.  You and me.  We hear his call.  He leads us on a mission day-by-day and moment-by-moment.  We go, not knowing where it will lead us but trusting the God who calls us to follow him."

And we do.  The journey might lead us through betrayal.  It might lead us through the valley of the shadow of death.  It might lead us through cancer or job loss or the breakdown of a family.  But through all of that, the good and the bad, through the pain and the joy, we live with a tenacious faith that knows "God can see the end of the road even when [we] can't."

Thanks, Mom and Dad.  Thanks for lending me your faith when I was a little girl.  Thanks for letting me go off and try to build my own faith.  And thanks for letting me find a faith that was yours all along.

Everything We Need to Know We Learned While Training Dragons

I meant to share this a while ago, when I first took my three daughters (and my dad) to see "How To Train Your Dragon 2" over the summer.  But then life happened (or laziness ensued or distraction set in or insert any other excuse here), and I didn't get around to it.  Then my nieces watched it during our family Christmas celebration, and news events happened in our country, and I was reminded.

So, in the theme of things as I close out 2014, better late than never.

While I was watching "How to Train Your Dragon 2," two themes kept coming to mind.  They, coupled with something I listened to myself whisper as I held my frightened four-year-old daughter on my lap, made up three truths about life I've learned over the last several years.  And, as I watch the news each day, I see how essential it is that I teach them to my girls.

It's been too long for me to give specific references to the film, and maybe they aren't even as important as real-life examples, so here goes nothing.

1) Talking and getting to know new people is better than fighting.
Our country is on the cusp of something major.  In college I studied the Civil Rights Movement, and in the cry of silent protesters and angry crowds I see so much history being repeated.  On another front there are lines being drawn about gay rights and transgender individuals and what is Christian and what is right. Then there is addiction--both the addicts themselves and the people who desperately love them and want to be enough for them . . .

We're in a mess of hurting people, and "we" as the Church are too often stepping up to the wrong side of those lines.  Yes.  There is right and there is wrong.  But God never asked us to judge the heart of man.  He asked us to love His children.  If I insist on pointing out the right and the wrong and ignore the brokenness and desperation, am I doing that?  No.  So.  Talking and getting to know people is better than fighting.  We need each other.  We need each other for what we can learn from people who are different than us, and we need each other for what we can share with people who are different than us.  And, most importantly, we need each other because without each other I'm not sure we can ever see a true picture of the God who created each of us.

2) Work together to fight the bullies.
Maybe this lends itself to #1 up there.  We. Need. Each. Other.  Period.  There's nothing more to it than that.  There are bullies in this world.  Some of them are big and physically violent.  Some of them are small and insidious.  Some of them are in the pews next to us in our churches.  Some of them stand in our capitol buildings.  Some of them wear a badge and carry a gun.  Some of them work on our news stations or in a cubicle next to us.

But, it's important to remember that not all of the people in those roles are bullies.

As I'm involved in a Global Learners' Initiative through my daughters' school district I have learned one important lesson: NEVER go alone.  Find a friend.  A buddy.  Someone who has your back.  Because here's the thing.  The bullies are tough.  Their insecurities and ignorance and hatred make them formidable, and their desperation makes them dangerous.

So don't go alone.

Let's join together.  Alone we can get killed.  Alone we can bend and break under the pressure.  Alone we can get laughed out of the room.

If you see a bully who needs to be fought, ask a friend to join you.  If you see a friend who's fighting a battle, join in.  Don't quarrel about differences in technique or philosophy or theology or interpretation.  Just fight alongside someone who needs it.

Fight the bullies with truth and goodness.  Maybe we'll get beaten in this battle.  But we'll win the war.

3) "It might get scary, but it will be okay."
This one is my favorite.  During the great battle scene at the end of the moview, my youngest daughter crawled onto my lap and whispered that she was scared.  I wrapped my arms around her, squeezed her tightly, and whispered back, "Baby, it will be okay.  It might get scary, but it will be okay."

There is truth to this, I realized as I heard my words.  That's life, friends.  It gets scary sometimes.  But it will be okay.

What a year my family had closing out 2013 and throughout 2014.  We were betrayed by friends--publicly.  Lies were told.  Tears were shed.  Curse words were uttered.  Truth is still taking its time stepping into the light.  In the middle of all of it, a brother ended his fight with PTSD.  And now, at the end of it (we thought), my dad has been diagnosed with prostate cancer.  His prognosis is good, though the cancer is aggressive.  Still, it's cancer.  There will be surgery and, depending on what the doctors find, maybe treatments.

It might get scary, but it will be okay.

We have faith.  And we have God.  And we have each other.  And we have grace.  And we know that in the end, it will all be okay.


Let these three lessons carry us into the new year, friends.  Let this be the year that the Church stops caring about semantics and starts caring about the heart of Christ.  Let this be the year that the bullies are fought against and that the bullied find us standing with them.  Let this be the year of hope in the midst of the fear that everything really will work out in the end.  And, in the middle of it all, let us find grace and love and joy.

Reviewing: The Making of an Ordinary Saint

The Making of an Ordinary Saint: My Journey from Frustration to Joy with the Spiritual Disciplines
by Nathan Foster

Three brief moments of disclosure before I begin:
1) This book took me months to read. That was all on me.  I slowly and carefully digested each word.  I'm certain it could have been read faster, but I couldn't do it.
2) I haven't read Celebration of Discipline by Richard Foster.  Still, I have my preconceived notions about the spiritual disciplines and Richard Foster's beautiful (and comical) use of antonyms in his title.
3) One of my dearest friends edited this book.  She knows me well enough to know that means nothing as to my liking this book.

Now.  On to the review.

Nathan Foster is the son of Richard Foster, whom I have always referred to as "The Disciplines Guy."   Richard's famous book Celebration of Discipline was published when I was one year old and has always felt like a daunting, "must-do" task for me if I want to be a true Christian.  I'm not sure anyone put that on me besides me, but it has always sat there nonetheless.  So, when my editor friend told me what she was working on, I was skeptical and intrigued.  Then I got my hands on the book.  And I spent the next three months eating, chewing, laughing, wiping away tears, nodding my head, and shaking my head in amazement.

For starters, I was glad to find out I wasn't the only one who found the concept of the spiritual disciplines as a formidable but essential checklist in order to reach true Christian status.  Richard Foster's own son felt that way too!  And, in much the same words my own pastor father would use, Richard gently explained to his son (and to the reader--in a coup we get "The Spiritual Disciplines Guy" AND his "Skeptical About the Disciplines Son"!): "This isn't supposed to hurt.  It's not supposed to be a checklist about succeeding or failing.  It's supposed to be about choosing God."

With candid honesty, vulnerable humility, and well-sprinkled humor, Nathan Foster details his four-year journey with the spiritual disciplines.  It's a journey from fear, trepidation, and duty to freedom, love, and joy.  Through his journey, Foster makes approachable what has long felt daunting.  And he helps his reader see the secret Richard Foster tried to share with us all along:

It isn't about twelve rigid practices; in fact, as I go about each day, there are so many simple ways I can intentionally direct my will and actions toward God.  While the categories are helpful, they are only constructed to enable us to frame our experiences.  In a sense there is only one discipline: an active response to a loving God. (p191)

And, in that learning to actively respond to a loving God, through Richard Foster's introductions to each chapter, Nathan Foster's prosaic explanations of his practical implementation of each discipline (sometimes accidental, always simple, and never with mundane results), and a brief essay on a "mother or father" of the faith who lived that discipline daily, we see that this really is practical.  It really is about responding actively to a loving God.  It really is about choosing joy and choosing love and seeing God and needing Him and wanting Him more than anything else.

I'll read this book again.  Next time it won't be for an assignment or with a deadline I already missed.  It will be with a journal and a plan to actively and intentionally walk this journey on my own.


Disclosure: I received this book free from Baker Books through the Baker Books Bloggers (www.bakerbooks.com/bakerbooksbloggers) program.  The opinions I have expressed are my won, and I was not required to write a positive review.  I am disclosing this in accordance with the Federal Trade Commission's 16 CFR, Part 255 (http://www.access.gpo.gov/nara/cfr/waisidx_03/16cfr255_03.html).

Finding Hope

I just finished reading The Hour I First Believed by Wally Lamb.  It is a book that had long been on my "To Read" shelf on Goodreads, and I was excited to walk past it on the shelf at the library while I was stocking up on vacation reading . . . for my daughter.  (I'm not sure how looking for books in the Young Adult section led to me being in the adult fiction section, but those sorts of things happen to me.  Any time I'm around books.)

It's a long, long book.  Possibly the longest work of fiction I've ever read.  Some of the reviews on Goodreads point to the fact that Lamb touches on five or six plot lines in this book, and he certainly covers everything from the Civil War to Columbine to PTSD to women's prisons to the current war in Afghanistan and Iraq to infidelity to . . . nearly everything else.  At first glance it really is a disjointed conglomeration that makes the reader wonder why we have held on for so long.  And then he says it.  On page 685, Lamb has a character say, "Life is messy, violent, confusing, and hopeful."

And that's it.

That's what all these things have in common.

And that's what they have in common with me reading it right now, finishing it yesterday, the day a group of people accidentally shot down a plane full of innocent passengers.  Passengers who included three infants and a hundred men and women who had dedicated their lives to saving the lives of others through HIV/AIDS research.  And the day Israel sent ground troops into Gaza.  Shortly after a local Christian radio host was arrested and charged with the sexual trafficking of a young boy.

"Life is messy, violent, confusing, and hopeful."

I have two friends whose families endured terrible and violent shooting tragedies over the past several years.  The devastation has been horrible, and it has changed everything about their worlds.  But they have hope.

I also have a friend who died following his battle against PTSD.  He fought willingly in a war against bullies and tyrants, because that's who Zack was.  But he was baptized, and he loved God, and we have hope that he is finally at peace.

For some reason Columbine has always stayed with me.  It has been tucked in my mind since it happened, and I continue to be impacted by it.  Perhaps it was the timing--I was a senior in college, so I was aware and had the time to watch the coverage and read about it.  Perhaps it was the fact that I joined my friends in taking a group of high schoolers to Columbine just one year after the shootings.  Or maybe it was standing in a church there, worshiping with my friends and those high schoolers, just miles from Columbine High School.  We sang "Better Is One Day," there in the shadow of the Rocky Mountains alongside Columbine students who knew and loved the children who died.  And we sang, with all our hearts and voices, "Better is one day in Your courts than thousands elsewhere."  Because even in that mess, that violence, that confusion . . . there was hope.

As I wrote following our break in, I have friends and family members who have lost jobs, been betrayed by friends, been abandoned by spouses who vowed to always stand by them, and have their families continually ravaged by addiction.  And all I have to offer them is this.

Life is messy.

Life is violent.

Life is confusing.

But, at the end of all this, life is hopeful.

Oh, my God.  He will not delay.
My refuge and strength, always.
I will not fear, His promise is true.
My God will come through, always.  Always.

{"Always," Kristian Stanfill}

When We Last Left Our Heroes . . .

We used to be a bit more innocent.  A bit more naive.  A bit more trusting.  And we used to own a different laptop and have a shady back door or two.  Oh, and we had a piggy bank I painted when I was first pregnant, before anyone but Beau and I knew.

My last post was in May. Early May.  That's because May is always a crazy month for me, and I barely have time to think any thoughts, let alone write them down.  I did manage to squeeze many wonderful events into the last five weeks of school--a visit from my wonderfully-amazing cousin, a chance to meet his super-cool boyfriend, the last preschool graduation, a fun mix-it-up lunch at my daughter's school, a Kindergarten field trip, cheering on my 3rd grader in the school talent show, turning 37, celebrating 16 years of marriage, enjoying "Jesus Christ Superstar" on stage, and a Kindergarten party.  We also worked in a vacation to three of the houses lived in by Laura Ingalls and her family.  It was busy, and it was fun.

And then, on our last day of vacation, after we'd enjoyed a day of pretending to be homesteaders in DeSmet, SD, I checked my phone to find a voicemail.  It was from our neighbor, who was feeding our cat while we were gone.  He asked me to call him back right away.

My first thought was that our cat had escaped and been hit by a car.  So I prepared myself for that.

Instead, he answered my hello with, "Beka, I'm sorry, but you were robbed."

Robbed.  Awesome.

Several long-distance phone calls--to my husband, who was in Montana for work; back to my neighbor; and to the police--later, we assessed that very few things had been taken.  We also determined our back doors were both toast.  And that it takes a very long time to get home from vacation when all you want to do is hug your husband and make sure your favorite things really are still in your house.

So now, nearly three weeks after we were broken into, my kitchen is a disaster while our builders work to replace our back doors and repair the frame around the door in the kitchen.  We'll have to repaint the frame when they're done.  And repair and repaint some chips in the plaster around the door.  And then scrub up the floor from the grease and dirt work boots bring with them.  We also had to clean up the fingerprint dust from my jewelry box and other doors and drawers.  And we're waiting to hear what our insurance will reimburse for the doors, my work laptop, our personal laptop, and that piggy bank which our oldest daughter and I will recreate together more than nine years after I painted that first one.

Those are the physical damages we'll repair and replace.  There are also emotional ones.  There were neighbors who saw the people who broke into our house--before they had broken in--and said nothing.  There were other neighbors who saw the people too and still said they wouldn't talk to the police.  There's an almost-nine-year old who doesn't understand why someone would steal her piggy bank.  And there's a six year old who is afraid to sleep in her room and had to receive reassurances from her daddy that the bad guys who break in and take things are not the same bad guys who break in and take kids.  Like I wanted my kids to learn that right now.

We've installed a security system.  And we've delayed the listing of our house for sale by a couple weeks so we can repair these damages in addition to finishing last-minute "fix-it" projects.  And we still have those Laura Ingalls Wilder memories.

But so far on our summer break we've also learned another lesson.  Or maybe relearned it.  There's a verse that keeps going through my head: "Some trust in chariots and some in horses, but we trust in the name of the LORD our God."  (Ps 20:7)

And I know He won't let us down.  Even in the middle of a break-in . . . or a job ending, or a church closing, or health concerns, or a broken marriage, or a friend's betrayal.  I trust in the name of the LORD my God.

For When Your Hope is Gone

A while back, I read a series of books called The Chaos Walking. 

It wasn't a series that I loved, but I did find some good "nuggets" in it.  One of those I have wanted to share in its a blog post all by itself.  Then life happened.  While I've spent the past couple of months trying to catch up with my life (how is it November already?!), I have also spent the past couple of months being too busy to be a friend to some of the important people in my life.  This post is for them, with my apology for neglecting to share this sooner or enough.  But it's also a reminder that while I may not have asked or hugged or listened as much as I wish I had, I never stopped believing.

There is a key to friendship and to being a true friend.  It is, quite often, the only key that I can offer to my friends.  For those of you who are Bible readers--or who have spent much time with me when we're sharing our stories--please think back to the story of the quadriplegic man who was carried on a mat by his four friends.  Remember that they climbed up a ladder to the roof of a house that was crowded with people following Jesus.  The friends carried their paralyzed buddy to the roof, broke through the roof, and lowered their friend to Jesus' feet.  They loved their friend, so they bore the burden of taking him to the feet of the only One who could remove his burden.  Nothing could stop them, because they loved their friend.  All the friend had to do was lie there.

Now that can be difficult, and much can be said about that important role, but for today I need to focus on the friends.  That's the role I'm privileged to be in for now, especially with two dear friends.  So, for them, I am sorry that I haven't carried fast enough or far enough.  But I want you to know that when your hope is gone, I will carry you.  When your hope is gone, I will bear your burden and carry you to the feet of the One who can ease your burden.  Who can hold you close.  Who longs to embrace you.  And I will count it a blessing.

Two messages for you, for when your hope is gone:

But there's one other thing I remember,
and remembering, I keep a grip on hope:
God's loyal love couldn't have run out,
his merciful love couldn't have dried up.
They're created new every morning.
How great your faithfulness!
I'm sticking with God (I say it over and over).
He's all I've got left.

...The "worst" is never the worst.
Why? Because the Master won't ever
walk out and fail to return.
If he works severely, he also works tenderly.
His stockpiles of loyal love are immense.
(Lamentations 3:22-24 and 31-33, The Message)

AND

“Hope,” he says, squeezing my arm on the word.  “It’s hope.  I am looking into yer eyes right now and I am telling you that there’s hope for you, hope for you both.”  He looks up at Viola and back at me.  “There’s hope waiting for you at the end of the road.”

“You don’t know that,” Viola says and my Noise, as much as I don’t want it to, agrees with her.

“No,” Ben says, “But I believe it.  I believe it for you.  And that’s why it’s hope.”

“Ben—“

“Even if you don’t believe it,” he says, “believe that I do.”

(The Knife of Never Letting Go, p376, Patrick Ness)

God's stockpiles of loyal love are immense.  Believe it, dear friends.  And even if you don't believe it, believe that I do.

I Almost Missed It Too

No doubt about it!  God is good--
good to good people, good to the good-hearted.
But I nearly missed it,
missed seeing his goodnesss.
I was looking the other way,
looking up to the people
At the top,
envying the wicked who have it made,
Who have nothing to worry about,
not a care in the whole wide world.

Psalm 73:1-5, The Message


What a reminder, early this morning, as I sat on the too-small front porch of a house I want to sell as I looked out at two vans that just aren't quite as cool as the Land Rovers I see every day and listened to my too-close neighbors begin their days while their dogs bark incessantly.

Maybe it's a first-world problem, or maybe it's an American one, but I'm certain it's not just mine.  Isn't it easy to envy other people who seemingly have it made?  Isn't it easy to be discontent with the car I drive or the house I call home or the neighborhood where I live or the gifts and talents I have or everything else about my life that just isn't good enough?  Isn't it far too easy to feel like other people "have it made, piling up riches" while we are "stupid to play by the rules" (vs. 12 in The Message)?

I have often said that the greatest disservice my mother ever did me was to teach me that I wasn't any more important than anyone else.  It makes me wait in line longer than other people do, it makes me give money to church and to other people who need it, it makes me spend some of my free time working for others.  It forces me to be a little bit less selfish.

Yet, I still forget.  I still look at other people and all that they have and wonder if--how--I can get my hands on some of it.

And then I'm reminded.  Whether it's by a blown call in a football game, giving a touchdown to someone who must know he didn't score one, or an artist selflessly offering to create something to benefit other people, or a few verses from a Psalm that I've read many times before.  I'm reminded.

"No doubt about it!  God is good . . . But I nearly missed it."

God, today, please open my eyes.  Let me focus on the higher purpose.  Let my focus be You and Your goodness.

You're all I want in heaven!
You're all I want on earth!
When my skin sags and my bones get brittle,
God is rock-firm and faithful.
Look!  Those who left you are falling apart!
Deserters, they'll never be heard from again.
But I'm in the very presence of God--
oh, how refreshing it is!
I've made Lord God my home.
God, I'm telling the world what you do!

Psalm 73:25-28, The Message

The Thirty-eighth Sabbath

It was Mission India Sunday at church, and then my Sunday School class and I discussed missions.  Those teenagers are pretty smart, and they have some great ideas about what it can be like to be the Word of God to those we meet.  All of it reminded me of a song I remember listening to in my bedroom when I was their age.  It made me think that maybe the traditional means of missions--walking in to a culture and telling them everything they do is wrong, and they need to change it all to come to Jesus--wasn't good enough.  That was all more deeply confirmed in my reading of my favorite "How To" guide to missions: The Poisonwood Bible by Barbara Kingsolver (yes, I get that she wasn't really trying to teach us about missions, but she definitely got her point across with the bits about the river and the farming).  Later, the Blessings Tour further affirmed it, and yesterday's message continued it.

So, Missions 101:
* First help them experience love.  Then explain the Bible.
* Don't bring the Bible--BE the Bible.
* Missions are (is?) a reminder to Satan that we win, because Jesus already won.

Oh, the suffering souls
Crying out for love
In a world that seldom cares
See the hungry hearts
Longing to be filled
With much more than our prayers

And a young girl sells herself on Seventh Avenue
And you hear her crying out for help
My God! What will we do ?

Don't tell them Jesus loves them
'Til you're ready to love them too!
'Til your heart breaks from their sorrow
And the pain they're going through
With a life full of compassion
May we do what we must do
Don't tell them Jesus loves them
'Til you're ready to love them too!

All the desperate men
Are we reaching for the souls
That are sinking down sin?
Oh, cry for the church
We've lost our passion for the lost
And there are billions left to win

And another 40,000 children starved to death today
Would we risk all we have
To see one of them saved!?!

Don't tell them Jesus loves them
'Til you're ready to love them too!
'Til your heart breaks from their sorrow
And the pain they're going through
With a life full of compassion
May we do what we must do
Don't tell them Jesus loves them
'Til you're ready to love them too!

Why have we waited so long
To show them Jesus lives
To share salvation's song!

Why have our hearts become so proud
That we fail to see
To love them is to love God!

And a young girl sells herself on Seventh Avenue
Hear her crying out for help
What will we do?

Don't tell them Jesus loves them
'Til you're ready to love them too!
'Til your heart breaks from their sorrow
And the pain they're going through
With a life full of compassion
May we do what we must do
Don't tell them Jesus loves them
'Til you're ready to love them too!

"Don't Tell Them Jesus Loves Them" by Steve Camp and Rob Frazier

Getting Back On Track

Ah, the lazy, hazy days of summer.  A little too hazy and humid this year for my taste, but still, they were lazy days.  And, if I'm honest, they were way too lazy.

Summer is the break we all need, right?  For as long as I can remember, my life has been divided into "school year" and "summer break."  Even now that I've been out of college and working at a "real job" for 13 years(!), that hasn't changed.  Most years I welcome the break and the change in pace.  This year, it's thrown me for a real loop.

I began the year with wonderful and lofty goals.  Goals I've been longing to achieve for most of my adult life--writing more, reading my Bible more, eating better, losing weight.  They have always required more discipline than I could tap into in my feeble brain, so I've always failed.  This year was going to be different.

And it was!  For the first month, I did great.  The second and third months wavered, but I still tried and was still committed.

Then, those lazy, hazy days of summer arrived.  The kids got a break from their routine, and I took one too.

Now, I find myself nearing the last quarter of the year, weighing the same as I did when I started, eating poorly, my gym card gathering dust, my Bible reading plan crossed off through June, and my blog updated once a week . . . maybe.  (I am ahead on my book reading goals, but I'm not sure anyone other than the Grand Rapids Public Library should be proud of that.)

So now I find myself trying to get back on track.  A series of books I just finished, the Chaos Walking trilogy, truly does contain some perfect lines (thanks, Amy), and one of those weaves its way through each of the three books: "It isn't whether you fall down, it's whether you get back up."  So, here I am.  The measure of Beka in 2012 isn't whether I fell down.  I've fallen down every year that I've tried to better my life.  The measure of Beka in 2012 is that I'm getting back up.  I've never done that before with these goals.  The other measure is that I'm doing it bathed in prayer and begging God to drag me back up.  Maybe I learned more by falling down than I would have by staying on my own two feet.  Isn't that always the way?

So, here I am.  At the demands of my dear friend Julie (who won't read this, because she never does), I am not looking backwards at where I would be today if I hadn't fallen.  I'm looking forward at where I can get by keeping my hand in His and moving.  I have a plan to continue (and finish!) my journey through the Bible in 2012.  I will accomplish it, because I want to, and because when I don't want to, I'm begging God to make me want to.  I have a plan to write more--maybe on my blog or maybe on secret projects to get DearEditorFriend off my back--and I have a plan to eat better.  I need to make a plan (ie. a schedule, so I don't just sit and watch TV) to work out and still manage to get my house clean and my kids to school in time.

It's a busy life, to be a mother.  It's a busier life, to be a mother with a dream.  So when I fall down, I'm going to get back up.  Because it's a sad life to spend all your days in the lazy, hazy days of summer.

The Most Important Lesson We Can Learn

I have three beautiful and amazing girls.  They like to giggle together.  They like to snuggle with each other.  They like to play Little People together.  And they love to fight.  Around my house, there is a lot of playing noise that quickly turns into yelling and screaming noise.  And then crying.  And then (usually when they've been reminded), there is a quiet and sad noise:

"I'm sorry."

Immediately following, and always unprompted, there is an equally quiet and sad noise:

"I forgive you."

The volume and the emotion behind it generally suggests that while not all is forgotten, and the pain still exists, the offense is forgiven.  It won't come between them anymore.  And, within minutes, they are giggling together.

I've been thinking a lot about forgiveness lately.

I work at a children's advocacy center.  We provide services for children who have been sexually abused.  National statistics tell us that 90% of the children who are sexually abused are victimized by people they know, love, and trust.  In the county where I live, it is closer to 99%.  We're talking fathers, stepfathers, mothers, cousins, Dad's best friend, step siblings, babysitters.  The other day, the mom of one of our clients was speaking with a group of people.  She said, "My daughter is an inspiration to me.  She teaches us all so much.  And I know the biggest reason for her freedom and joy is something that she is teaching me: she forgave the man who did this to her." 

She forgave the man who did this to her.  She forgave the dear family friend who sexually abused her when he thought she was sleeping.

At the same time, there is a couple I know who are in the process of getting divorced.  The reason?  She had an affair.

I understand that having someone cheat on you is a horrible thing.  The betrayal, the disappointment, the fear, the rejection.  It is, according to many people I know, unforgivable.

And, in the case of this couple, it destroyed their marriage.  Or did it?  You see, she had her affair--and ended it--at least fifteen years ago.  She came clean to her husband, they recommitted themselves each to their marriage and each other, and they moved past it.  Or so she thought.

What really ended their marriage?  Not forgiving.  When he asked her to leave, he told her it was because he had never forgiven her for what she did fifteen years ago.  Talk about betrayal, disappointment, fear, and rejection.  Can you imagine believing that the man you love has extended grace and forgiveness--which you, self admittedly, did not deserve--only to find out that he has held on for fifteen years?  That slowly, his deception has been eating away at the vows you took before God and your family and friends?

That's what not forgiving does.  In Traveling Mercies Anne Lamott wrote, "Not forgiving is like eating rat poison and waiting for the rat to die."  Amen.  And then amen again.

Not forgiving destroys marriages.  It robs joy.  It erases freedom.  It brings a slow and painful death.

Forgiving brings life.  It causes joy and delivers freedom.  It's hard.  And it may be quiet and sad, because it's not easy, and the pain is still there.  But, it says that nothing will come between us. 

Spend a few hours at our house, and you will learn many lessons.  You will learn how a small person with mere inches of water in the bathtub can make every square inch of the bathroom wet.  You will learn that ketchup, cheese, mayo, pickles, and two slices of bread make a terrific lunch.  You will learn how to giggle, transform plastic tubs into cars, and use Mom's cell phone to watch Curious George.  You will also learn how to apologize.  And, most importantly, you will learn how to forgive.

The Thirty-first Sabbath - Taking Our Turn

Yesterday in church, our pastor shared an email from one of our members who is currently in Thailand, visiting her son and daughter-in-law and grandchildren.  She wrote about the church service she had attended that morning--along with Christians from 40+ other countries.  And then she said something like, "As we worshiped God, I thought about the sun rising around the world, calling God's people to gather and worship Him--brothers and sisters in India, children in Africa, and you there.  Just as the sun's light spills across the earth, we gather, hour by hour, to give Him glory.  May He be with you as you take your turn."

I loved that.  "As you take your turn."  I did that yesterday, and it was a lovely service--begun in worship with friends and ended with blueberry cobbler shared with old friends and new friends.  And all day long, this song fluttered through my brain:

It's the song of the redeemed
Rising from the African plain
It's the song of the forgiven
Drowning out the Amazon rain
The song of Asian believers
Filled with God's holy fire
It's every tribe, every tongue, every nation
A love song born of a grateful choir

It's all God's children singing
Glory, glory, hallelujah
He reigns, He reigns
It's all God's children singing
Glory, glory, hallelujah
He reigns, He reigns

Let it rise about the four winds
Caught up in the heavenly sound
Let praises echo from the towers of cathedrals
To the faithful gathered underground
Of all the songs sung from the dawn of creation
Some were meant to persist
Of all the bells rung from a thousand steeples
None rings truer than this
And all the powers of darkness
Tremble at what they've just heard
'Cause all the powers of darkness
Can't drown out a single word

When all God's children sing out
Glory, glory, hallelujah
He reigns, He reigns
All God's people singing
Glory, glory, hallelujah
He reigns, He reigns

"He Reigns," by Newsboys

Cheating People

This morning, in the coolness of my bedroom (okay, it was probably about 80 degrees--but that's cool if you'd entered the room the night before at about 95), I read Acts 13 in The Message.  I've always enjoyed Eugene Peterson's translation as I find him to be sassy, honest, and practical.  This particular section is referred to as "Barnabas, Saul, and Doctor Know-It-All."  (See what I mean about sassy?  You should check out Job!)

As I was reading, I was struck especially by the section for verses 7-11:

The governor invited Barnabas and Saul in, wanting to hear God's Word firsthand from them. But Dr. Know-It-All (that's the wizard's name in plain English) stirred up a ruckus, trying to divert the governor from becoming a believer. But Saul (or Paul), full of the Holy Spirit and looking him straight in the eye, said, "You bag of wind, you parody of a devil—why, you stay up nights inventing schemes to cheat people out of God. But now you've come up against God himself, and your game is up. You're about to go blind—no sunlight for you for a good long stretch." He was plunged immediately into a shadowy mist and stumbled around, begging people to take his hand and show him the way.

Those italics there are mine, because that's the part that jumped out at me.  "Why, you stay up nights inventing schemes to cheat people out of God."  Wow.  Now, this "Dr. Know-It-All" was a wizard.  He truly did spend his time trying to distract people from the Gospel message that Paul and Barnabas were trying to share.  And he paid for it dearly, with his sight.

But that really got me thinking--about me.  I'm certainly not a wizard (no amount of waiting has resulted in the delivery of my acceptance letter for Hogwarts), but I can tend toward being a Know-It-All.  I have the answers or I have the challenge to what people want to do.  And, I don't stay up nights inventing schemes.  I tend to stay up nights praying for a breeze so I can actually fall asleep.  But do I still cheat people out of God?  Can someone who loves God and has every good intention to serve Him do that?

Wouldn't that be a horrible message for a Christian to receive?  "Why, you . . . cheat people out of God."  Ugh.

But, if I'm not living as He called me to--if I'm not loving my neighbors, if I'm ignoring their needs, if I'm not participating in my church's work, if I don't have time to listen to a friend's heart, if I say I'll pray and don't, if I'm stingy with the resources God has entrusted to me, if I'm too paralyzed by fear to step out in faith to do what I know He has for me . . . am I cheating people out of God?  Because, really, if we're whom He has left on earth to do His work, to be Jesus to the people we meet, then if we aren't doing that are we any better than Dr. Know-It-All?

Enduring Injustice

I recently had a conversation with a friend about something that happened more than a year ago.  As is often the case in broken relationships, there was misunderstanding, heartache, and injustice.  And a lot of pain.  But, at the same time, there is a glimmer of God working.

There are times in our lives when we have to endure injustice.  Life isn't fair.  Relationships hurt.  We get blamed for things we didn't do.  Our relationships end, and our hearts break.  We want to rise up and defend ourselves.  We want to make it right again or at least make sure people know we aren't who or what we've been accused of being.

Surely there are times when we are allowed to do that.  We get to defend ourselves in court--with integrity--and we can certainly speak to our motives or explain the reasons behind our actions. 

But there are perhaps more times when we are called to endure injustice with grace and courage.

For it is better, if it is God’s will, to suffer for doing good than for doing evil. For Christ also suffered once for sins, the righteous for the unrighteous, to bring you to God.  (I Peter 3:17b-18)

And that's what it all comes down to.  When you have done the right thing, when you have spoken the truth in love, when you are taking the fall so that someone else doesn't have to . . . when it's God's will.  That's the point where you endure. 

It hurts to be wrongfully accused.  It hurts like hell to lose relationships that matter.  But when you can see that good is happening, that God is still in control, that He is moving, then it's all worth it. 

May I always be more than willing to suffer injustice for the greater good of God's master plan. 

May I see that in those times I have the opportunity to be Christ to those around me.  He suffered the ultimate injustice--His death--for the greater good--our lives. 

And may I never stop praying for reconciliation and healing in broken relationships . . . all in His good time.

A Love Story

Once upon a time a boy and a girl grew up, in separate towns, with different families.  After he graduated from high school, the boy made his way to the middle of the mitten to begin the rest of his life.  Two years later, the girl also left her home and her family to settle into a new town, make new friends, and (eventually) marry her high school sweetheart.

Because life doesn't always work they way it's planned, the girl's relationship ended.  Three months later, the boy accepted God as his Savior and began attending a Christian fellowship group.  There, the boy and the girl met.  One day, the boy and the girl were assigned to call each other with a reminder about their volunteer work for the group.  The boy made the girl laugh.  But that wasn't love.

The boy and the girl became fast friends, and they discovered that God wanted them to get married.  So, fourteen years ago today, they did just that.  They danced to "Shameless," and they were in love.  But that wasn't love.

Where you go I will go, and where you stay I will stay. Your people will be my people and your God my God. Where you die I will die, and there I will be buried. May the Lord deal with me, be it ever so severely, if anything but death should separate you and me.  Ruth 1:16-17

Even though they had a beautiful wedding and made wonderful vows to each other, and even though their friends all wished them happily ever after, things went differently.  Three years after they married, the boy and the girl realized that they didn't want to be married to each other anymore.  They decided to separate.  While they were apart, they discovered that God truly had other plans for them and their marriage.  So they fought.  Instead of fighting with each other, they fought next to each other, for each other.  And that was love.

I will repay you for the years the locusts have eaten.  Joel 2:25

Over the years, they have settled into a deep friendship and into their lives together.  There are now three beautiful girls and one child in heaven.  A household of two has become a household of five.  They haven't always been happy, but they have always been committed . . . to each other, to God, to their family.  And that was love.

It's hard to know--or even imagine--what life could hold next for the boy and the girl.  They have their plans and their dreams, but they don't know.  Today they are in love, and they are best friends.  God has helped them go and stay together.  One day death will separate them.  But until then, God truly has repaid them for the years of their marriage that the locust stole, and He has given them love.

And we're dancing in the minefields
We're sailing in the storm
This is harder than we dreamed
But I believe that's what the promise is for

So when I lose my way, find me
When I loose love's chains, bind me
At the end of all my faith, till the end of all my days
When I forget my name, remind me

'Cause we bear the light of the Son of Man
So there's nothing left to fear
So I'll walk with you in the shadowlands
Till the shadows disappear

'Cause he promised not to leave us
And his promises are true
So in the face of all this chaos, baby,
I can dance with you

"Dancing In the Minefields," Andrew Peterson

Beau, I love you.  I'd happily be the girl who went to Central and met you and married you and fought with you and fought for you and fought next to you and birthed our beautiful children and worked with you to raise them and spent fourteen years (so far) dancing through the minefields with you.  Because He promised not to leave us, and His promises are true.  So I'll walk with you in the shadowlands 'till the shadows disappear.  530

Who I Am In The Dark

This is for my pastor, who took me to task for claiming there were lots of thought-provoking moments from our service on Sunday and then only posting a video from someone else.  (It was a jest-filled taking to task, like much of the evening was, but I still feel I owe him one.)  So, Pastor Tim, this is for you.

For the past several weeks, our pastor has been delivering messages about community and truly caring for each other:

• On April 15, we were challenged by John 21:1-19 when Jesus calls Peter to demonstrate his love for Jesus by feeding His sheep.  It was explained that Jesus had taken His disciples full circle.  He called them to Himself by making them fishers of men.  He called them, Pastor Tim said, to bring people from one kingdom into another--they were to rescue them from the sea (representative of chaos and despair) and bring them into peace and joy.  After His resurrection, Jesus again calls them to Himself by telling them to feed His lambs.  He called them to carry on His work of being an unconditional and true friend to to the broken by meeting their deepest needs.
• On April 22, Dr. Branson Parler filled in for Pastor Tim, and he preached about freedom.  His text was Galatians 5:13-6:2, and he spoke about the truth of freedom.  So often we consider Christianity as a list of don'ts, and we want to rebel against that.  The truth is that through Christianity, we are free to be whom God has actually created us to be.  We want to be free from others when God is calling us to be free to be with others and to care for them.
• This past Sunday, Pastor Tim taught on integrity.  Webster defines "integrity" as "firm adherence to a code of especially moral . . . values; un unimpaired condition; the quality or state of being complete or undivided."  I like the way that dictionary.com states that final definition: "the state of being whole, entire, or undiminished."  Being whole . . . undiminshed.  God calls us to a whole and undiminshed relationship with Him, and with others.  It does no good for anyone for me to pretend to be someone other than who I am.  When I do that, I'm hiding something--I'm in bondage to a facade, an act--and I'm not free to fully love others.  There's freedom in Christ.  There's freedom in the humilty of falling on my face at the cross and saying, "God, I don't have it all together."  There's freedom in admitting that same truth to others.  There's freedom in integrity, in being whole and undiminished, complete and undivided.

So, who am I in the dark?  Who am I behind my husband's back, my friends' backs, when my windows and doors are shutting my neighbors out?  There's the true answer, and then there's the answer I'd like to give.  How is that for integrity?  Or maybe I can just let you in on my little secret.  I'll quote Douglas Coupland (in one of my favorite books, Life After God) to share it right:

Now here is my secret; I tell it to you with an openness of heart that I doubt I shall ever achieve again, so I pray that you are in a quiet room as you hear these words. My secret is that I need God--that I am sick and can no longer make it alone. I need God to help me give, because I no longer seem capable of giving; to help me to be kind, as I no longer seem capable of kindness; to help me love, as I seem beyond being able to love.

That's who I am in the dark.

But there's something more that hit me. 

"Who am I . . . when my windows and doors are shutting my neighbors out?" 

Maybe that's one of the other reasons I need to keep my doors open to let my neighbors in.  If they're in, then I can't be someone else, can I?  Because I can't hide.  I'm not in the dark if I'm always willing to walk in the light--with Jesus and with others.

So this is the truth, who I am in the dark.  The truth is that I need God.  I am sick, and I can't make it on my own.  I need Him to help me give and be kind and love.  The truth is also that I need others.  Even when I want to be apart from them, I need them to keep me accountable and help me to be who I truly am.  Whole and undiminished.

A Lesson from my Dad

Because The Eighteenth Sabbath reminded me of my dad and one of the most important lessons a girl could ever learn, here is that lesson for all of you, too. 

In July 1989, my dad took a call at 36th Street CRC in Wyoming, MI.  It meant a family move to Grand Rapids from South Dakota.  It also meant I would start 7th grade in a new town, at a new school, with no one that I had ever met before.  My sister was in high school, so she had to go to school to register on a Monday.  I wouldn't start until Tuesday, so my dad took me to Meijer on Clyde Park to pick up a few things for school. 

Riding in the car with my dad has always meant listening to music, and it's usually meant listening to it loudly.  That's what we were doing that day.  It must have been 99.3 (WJQK), because WCSG (91.3) usually played sleepy music in the late '80s and early '90s, and WAYFM didn't exist yet.  We had just pulled into the parking lot, when a song by DeGarmo & Key came on.  My dad had me sit and listen to it, and then he said, "This will get you through tomorrow and every other day, kiddo.  If God is for you, then no one else matters."

It's a hard lesson to learn and an even harder lesson to remember.  When the pressures of the world stack up, and I feel like I don't measure up, the last thing I'm thinking about is that it doesn't matter what others think, because God is for me.  It's easier to think that if I was just something more, something different, then the world would be nicer to me.  But, the truth remains: if God is for us, who could be against us?  No power on earth can take His love away.

When you rest in that, you can truly rest.  Thanks, Daddy.  It really does get me through every day.

Random Thoughts from the Sabbath

I wanted to write something about my day yesterday, but there are several "somethings" in my mind.  At this point they don't seem too connected, so we'll call it random for now and see where we end up.

Thought #1
Dr. Branson Parler, Kuyper College professor and member at Fourth Reformed, preached about freedom yesterday.  It was an ironic message topic since Beau and I were "free" from our kids for the weekend and were enjoying that the noisy kids in the service weren't ours for a change.  As Branson preached on Galatians 5:13-6:2, he talked about how the world so often views freedom as just that--freedom from something.  The reality is that God wants to free us for something.  He frees us for Himself and He frees us for others. 

Yes, God does free us from sin, but it is so that we are free for living the lives that God created us to live.  To reclaim some part of that peace and joy and communion with Him and others.  One of the things Branson pointed out is that when you chop off your finger (because we all do that, right?), you haven't actually freed it from anything.  You have only condemned it to death.  The only way a finger can actually be a finger and do finger things is when it is attached to the body.  The same is true for us.  The only way that we can be ourselves, who we have been created to be and living out the gifts God has uniquely given to us, is when we are connected to the body.

Thought #2
Branson also quoted one of the most beautiful and gut-punching verses in the Bible.  It deserves its own thought, because it's just that good.  Galatians 5:6 "The only thing that counts is faith expressing itself through love."

Thought #3
I have been teaching 7th-12th grade Christian Ed at church this year.  We're covering the Heidelberg Catechism, with varying degrees of success (as defined by the leaders' manual, I suppose), enjoyment (mine and that of my 7th-12th graders), and commitment (again, mine and theirs--I won't lie about that).  It's such lovely and weighty subject matter, and unfortunately I don't think our curriculum really speaks to my students or leaves them with much to hold onto.

As I reviewed this week's lesson, I just didn't feel good about what was in my manual.  It just felt cheesy and boring.  So I decided that since my "full" group would be there (we range from 2-10 on any given week) and we had six Q&As to get through, we would break into pairs and rewrite them.  I challenged the students to read the verses that went with the answers and then rewrite the answers in a more personal way.  We did Q&A 46 together.  Then I gave each pair Q&A 47-50.  I took Q&A 51 on my own, because we had only eight students.  I knew that what they could come up with could be huge, and I hoped they knew that too.  I was asking them to read scripture, think critically about how it applied to this question and to their lives, and then share it with everyone else.

They amazed me.

They shouldn't have, because I knew they could do it.  But they did.  And I'm so proud of what they shared.  I wish I'd recorded it.

Thought #4
As I said, I took Q&A 51.  We're nearly finished with the Apostles Creed portion of the Catechism, and these six Q&As are all about the ascended Christ sitting at the right hand of God.  The questions range from how is that possible to what it might mean for us.  I didn't mean to be so convicted by the one I "randomly" received from God.  As restated by me:

Q. How does this glory of Christ our head benefit us?
A. Christ has now been restored to full communion with God and the Holy Spirit, pouring the Holy Spirit's gifts out on us.  I, personally, have the gifts--and the personality--I have directly from the Spirit in order that I might use them to build up the body. 

Also, by sitting at the right hand of God, Christ has the full army of God ready and willing to do all that He commands.  Because He is with the father who created me and loves me, He will let nothing destroy me.

I've been thinking a lot lately about how God has gifted me and the personality that He has given me.  I have a passion to strengthen others--to build up the weak with encouragement and to challenge the strong with truth.  Could it possibly be that God has given that passion and the gifts to live out that passion?

Thought #5
This thought came today, while I was writing out my "random" thoughts.  I chuckle almost every time I use the word "random," because I don't believe for one second that God is a God of random happenstance.  I believe that God is a God of providential circumstance.  And because I've seen it often enough to know it's true, I sort of knew He would tie my random thoughts together as I wrote--at least as they apply to me. 

• The only way that we can be ourselves, who we have been created to be and living out the gifts God has uniquely given to us, is when we are connected to the body.
• "The only thing that counts is faith expressing itself through love."
• I knew that what they could come up with could be huge, and I hoped they knew that too. I was asking them to read scripture, think critically about how it applied to this question and to their lives, and then share it with everyone else.
• I, personally, have the gifts--and the personality--I have directly from the Spirit in order that I might use them to build up the body.

My connection to the Body of Christ is essential, both in His figurative body and in the literal body of believers.  I will be worthless without that Body, because I have been uniquely gifted as Rebekah Marie (Bierenga) McDowell to do Beka things.  If I cut myself off, then I cut myself off to death.  And even more than that, if I cut myself off or refuse to do the Beka things that God created me to do, then I deprive the Body of what it needs to live out God's call for it.

This ended up longer than I thought it would be, so thanks for hanging with me on my rabbit trail.  I'm starting to wonder if any of it tied together for anyone but me.  Oh, well.  We always reach a conclusion; it just doesn't always resemble anything close to where we started or where we thought we'd end.  And it generally leads us to the beginning of another journey that we never expected but always sort of hoped was waiting for us.  That's where I'm standing today.  And, as my DearWriterFriend (DearPublisherFriend?) likes to say, "We are living the epilogue."  Thanks for sitting in on this page of mine.